Hello friend, welcome to Scrap Facts. I’m Katherine, and I’m glad you’re here.
By day, I work in tobacco harm-reduction policy. In my free time, I write essays to better understand the world around me.
Last night, I was curled up on the couch with a book when I noticed the tapping sound of my nails on the back of a hardcover book.* They made a steady, satisfying drumming noise, and they’re painted black with pink and blue sparkles. I got them done at a salon a few weeks ago because I wanted them to look nice when I visited family for the holidays.
Nails are, of course, completely unremarkable. They inevitably grow like hair and rings on a tree. But for me the fact that they’re there at all — let alone painted —signifies a much larger change I hadn’t even noticed until I started abstent-mindedly tapping.
I’m a chronic nervous nail-biter. For most of my life, my nails have been short, jagged, and surrounded by red puffy cuticles. I’ve tried almost everything to stop: bitter-tasting polish, press-on nails, tips and extensions under hard acrylic shells. No matter what I tried, I’d end up picking them away.
Yet somehow, over the course of the last few months, something shifted to the point where I had given my nails enough of a break to lead me to think, I should get them painted as little treat.
As I continued to drum my nails while I sat on the couch, I decided to abandon my reading and hunt for other evidence of change. I went to the only record I’ve consistently kept over the last four years: A line-a-day pocket journal I made by hand at the start of 2020.
Most of the entries I’ve kept are unhelpfully vague (“Went for an arboretum run; chores and movie with Ben.”), but toward March I noticed I was making references to “still being sober” — which reminded me that in late January, I told myself I would stop drinking alcohol for an indefinite period of time.
If I recall correctly, this decision came out of wanting to feel strong on runs and clear-headed in the mornings. No one told me I had to stop; but I knew that I tended to feel generally worse with alcohol. Even one drink would give me anxious after-effects, amplified by an SSRI I take to … reduce my anxiety.
So I set out to break the habit. Slowly, I learned to give myself other cues to relax at the end of the day. By June, the entries congratulating myself for choosing not to drink tapered off; I think at this point, it felt more second nature.
I’ve tried to take sobriety breaks before, but they haven’t stuck. This time, when I mentioned it to friends that I was thinking about quitting, they pointed out to me that I’m always happier when I don’t have alcohol in my life.
Taking out alcohol forced me to feel all the things I liked to dull with a drink — like wanting to leave a situation I felt I should want, whether that be a social function or a toxic work dynamic. Without alcohol, I had to face those situations head-on, which was horribly uncomfortable sometimes.
But it also forced me to think about how I truly wanted to handle them — and to listen to myself and all the reasons why I was forcing my feelings down. People won’t think you’re fun if you go home early, I thought.
Maybe, but why do I care what certain people think when I’m not enjoying their company? I countered.
You’re lucky to be a journalist, this is just how newsrooms are — buck up, I chided myself.
Okay — but is this career you’ve dreamed for yourself even worth it if you’re crying more weeks than not?
Not drinking led me to say what I really needed out loud. I think the reason I didn’t before was because I was worried those needs wouldn’t or couldn’t be met.
I lost some relationships. But they were ultimately superficial and detracting too much from my life without filling my cup in return. I found I could now put that newly freed-up energy into relationships of my choosing with my spouse, my family (chosen and biological), running and myself.
The goals I set out for myself this year came and went. I accomplished some of them, I missed the others, but I don’t even care because I loved the process of reaching for them so much more. I had so much unexpected fun. I grew through setbacks. And, I got a manicure.
I have no doubt that I’ll still be nervous and anxious. I’m a Virgo, it cannot be helped. But I also know that as long as I take time to truly listen to what I need, I’m on the right track — and without the angst of trying to fight myself, I can be there for the people I care about, too.
My wish for you, dear reader, is that you find your own secret to growing out your nails — or finally exhaling or unclenching your jaw, whatever it is, in the year ahead. Happy New Year, my friend. I am glad you’re here.
*Crimson Reign, the last book in the Blood Heir trilogy by Amélie Wen Zhao.
What else have I been up to?
Reading, mostly. Follow me on Storygraph!
I had so much fun running this year. I truly fell back in love with the sport, after becoming all too focused on how my races looked from the outside and (surprise!) getting burned out. After the Marine Corps Marathon this year, I took a two month break from training. This is the first time I can remember in a while where I’ve taken a voluntary break, and not a forced one due to injury. I’m super excited to continue the practice in 2024.
And, as I alluded to in the essay above, I left my job in journalism. Starting in the new year, I’ll be the director of media relations for the Foundation for a Smoke-Free World, a group that focuses on global tobacco harm-reduction. I’m excited to put my professional energy into a cause I truly care about, and I’ll still be writing personal essays in my free time.
That’s all for now. Stay curious, friend! ❤️
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